He had to let it go; he knew that, but how? She’d imprinted on him in a way no other had.
This is crazy, he told himself. He understood the euphoric effects of dopamine and how, in the early stages of infatuation, it could turn even the most sensible man into an unleashed beast. But he wasn’t just any man; this washim. He didn’t rate himself enough to know he wasn’t immune, but he expected better. He was a doctor after all, one who’d spent years dissecting emotional impulses, providing evidence-based counsel to therapists on love’s chemical lies, warning them notto trust the rush. And yet, here he was caught in it, entirely aware and utterly powerless.
After staring at the screen a little longer, he set the phone down, and the room suddenly felt suffocating. The air was too thick, the walls too close, and as his fingers curled into a fist, he closed his eyes, trying to block it out.
“What’s happening to me?” he whispered, over and over until the murmur broke out into a pained yell. “Get out of my head!”
Then, without thinking, he grabbed the empty whisky glass and hurled it at the wall.
It shattered on impact, sending shards scattering across the wooden floor, the sound sharp and final. He sat there, staring at the broken pieces, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.
He was losing it, and for the first time in his adult life, he wasn’t in control.
XXVI
DAISY
It took her another thirteen days to step inside the hospital, though she’d driven there half a dozen times, circling the car park, staring at the glass doors, willing herself forward. Each time, she turned back. Each time, she told herself she would return tomorrow.
Looking back, she was no longer certain what frightened her more: the possibility of Callan failing to recognise her, the prospect of seeing him for the first time since the accident, or the gnawing fear that, upon doing so, she would realise she no longer loved him.
The night before she finally went, sleep eluded her. An hour here, perhaps two if she was lucky. Their daughter criedincessantly, her tiny body curling into hers as if she somehow knew that her mother was unravelling. The doctors had called it colic, but to Daisy, it was unrelenting torment. When the baby wasn’t screaming, she was latched onto her, leaving her skin raw and exhaustion tightening its noose around her neck. And yet, when she finally made it to the hospital, when she stepped through those doors and saw Callan’s mother waiting, none of it seemed to matter.
She stepped into her path, intercepted Daisy before she could reach his room. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.
Daisy stiffened and waited for her to notice the car seat in her right arm, only she didn’t. “I’ve come to see my husband.”
“You’ve had nearly two weeks. Where have you been?”
Her mouth opened, then closed again, the lump in her throat rising. She’d rehearsed this moment, imagined how it would unfold, but even so, it caught her off guard.
“Where have I been?” she echoed, her voice foreign to her own ears. “I have been trying to keep myself from drowning. I’ve been alone with a newborn who never stops crying, who only wants me, and I—I can’t even drive.” She exhaled, shaking her head. “And you. You never called. She’s your granddaughter. She might be your only grandchild.”
For a moment, Callan’s mother simply stared at her. Her jaw was tight, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her. Daisy hadn’t expected it, and perhaps that was why it broke her. She crumpled into her embrace, silent sobs wracking through her as she whispered, “It’s alright. It’s going to be alright.”
People often say that hurt begets hurt, that pain turns us cruel, and Daisy had often wondered if that was why his mother had rejected her the way she had. She spent countless hours trying to understand the source of that coldness, searching for some pattern or reason that might explain the emotional distance.But as time passed, she started to question whether cruelty was the right label. Maybe it wasn’t cruelty at all—perhaps it was desperation. She was a widow, and Callan was her only son. Since they'd started dating, however, there had been less time for her. On one hand, she was trying to navigate the uncertainty of her future, while on the other, her growing loneliness began to seep into her every thought, infecting her with a sense of isolation. Daisy couldn’t blame her for resenting her.
They entered Callan’s room together. He was asleep, his body limp against the sheets, tubes trailing from both arms. She’d braced herself for it, or so she thought she had, but the man lying in that bed was a stranger. His face was gaunt, his skin pallid, a dark beard shadowing his jaw. His lips were chapped, his hands motionless at his sides, and his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, as though every inhale took everything he had.
“Why don’t I take her for a little while?” Callan’s mother murmured, her eyes flicking to the baby, still squirming against the pacifier the nurses had insisted she try. “Just long enough for you two to have a moment. I’ll bring her back if she gets too fussy.”
Daisy hesitated. The thought of handing her over, even for a minute, made something tight and sharp twist inside her chest. “It won’t be long.”
Callan’s mother smiled, her face lined with weariness but softened by something deeper, something knowing. “You never know. Maybe without your scent, she’ll settle more easily.”
Daisy nodded, her fingers trembling as she pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead and placed her gently into her grandmother’s arms.
As the door clicked closed behind them, leaving her and Callan alone, she leaned against him, her head resting on his chest. For months, she’d longed for the comfort of his presence, but as her face touched the bare skin of his chest, she felt no comfort.His body was rigid, skin lukewarm. The scent of antiseptic clung to him—sterile, unfamiliar. And perhaps most unsettling of all, there was no hand tracing slow circles against her back, no soft breath kissing her nape.
Wherever he was, it wasn’t with her.
Logan had once told her in his emails, “Dreams are often the body’s way of making sense of things. They’re like coded messages from the unconscious, revealing our hopes, inner conflicts, fears, and desires we cannot quite express.”
Daisy hadn’t remembered a dream in months when that day, he came to her—Callan. They were in bed, their daughter’s cot to her right. The morning sun streamed through a small gap in the curtains, and the rich aroma of coffee lingered in the air.
“You’re awake,” Callan said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Did you sleep well?”
Even in the dream, she froze. It felt so real, everything from his skin's warmth to his voice's cadence.
